


And for Worse

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bonding over trauma, Borderline Magnus, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Driving, Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family Issues, Gender Dysphoria, Illegal Activities, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Swearing, Trans Male Character, Trans Pickles the Drummer, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: After Pickles learns his insurance no longer covers his HRT, Magnus offers a promising, but sordid arrangement for Pickles to gain access to his better coverage. The arrangement? Holy matrimony. The sordid part? Magnus Hammersmith himself.It’s one thing to rush into a marriage for love, another when one marries for convenience sake, and Pickles really, really needs this marriage to work.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Pickles The Drummer
Comments: 11
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a tumblr prompt has now evolved into 7k words of this mess. Please let me know this isn't a terrible mistake, and that there's potential for this mess to evolve into something be...well, not beautiful, but something?

Worst part about visiting the pharmacy is the location. The city has at least a dozen hospitals, but the only one that accepts Pickles’ insurance is a thirty-minute drive one way, and off the corner of a busy street with not nearly enough traffic signs, and way too many bicyclists stopping to hit up the dealer schmoozing to sell subpar weed. It’s a bitch just to get in the crappy parking structure, and Pickles is sure he’d end up stabbing a dude just trying to make the world’s widest U-turn with Nathan’s truck, and maybe tack on an additional twist-n-pulls finding decent spot to lob the vehicle in once he arrives. Lucky for him, Nathan is always willing to make the hour-long drive just for the hell of it. Pickles figures it’s mainly due in part to Nathan’s abundant fascination with music, and the sheer joy he gets just listening and talking about it on long rides, but the man’s a saint nonetheless. Pickles has no problem taking in the demographic history of early Scandinavian death metal bands if it makes the process of picking up his gel easier. Bad enough the insurers only handed him two pumps a pop. The crappy location and last year’s seven-dollar increase were just the whip cream and cherry to his otherwise bullshit sundae. Still, there were worse options.

They enter the small hospital just shy of twelve, when the humidity hasn’t quite yet reached its horrific peak. Pickles glances at the small row of dollar ice cream in the cafeteria, and raises a lazy finger in its direction just before Nathan breaks from him to meander through the gift shop. The man says little, only gives his sideway nod to show his interest, then stomps off to keep himself busy while Pickles heads to pharmacy for his bi-monthly dosage of T.

…

“Your total comes to $133,” the pharmacist announces in clear, concise voice.

Pickles’ attention sways from the decadent row of cough drops, bottles of berry and cherry flavored Robitussin. There’s a sparkle, a rise of curiosity when he hears the unusual number.

“S’cuse me?” he asks, bearing a slightly disappointed smile that’s directed more at himself for not paying attention, and less at the annoyed pharmacist just trying to do her job. “Can you, uhh, repeat that one more time?”

“Your prescription,” she says, slower and more pronounced. “The amount due is $133 exactly. Will you be using cash, card or check?”

Oh? Pickles’ drops his stare to the register. There it is: $133.00, clear as day. A vast difference from the usual thirty-seven Pickles is used to paying. The amount makes his stomach turn and twist into an ugly, gut wrenching knot. He rolls the two twenties held between his index and middle finger, feeling their inadequacy drag between the clammy appendages.

Surely there must be a mistake, he thinks.

“Can ya check again?” Pickles rests his bony elbows on top of the counter. It’s a mistake, but there’s a distinct contrast between the cool plastic countertop versus his reddening arms. The sensation is an unsettling reminder of how quick he is to second-guess, but Pickles persists through that gathering storm of fear and figures there has to be a problem with his card. “My card,” he mentions at the thought, sensing some relief when he heard the words fly out his mouth. “Yeah, maybe the barcode is messed up?”

The pharmacist says nothing and cancels the order, then begins typing in the row of numbers on his insurance card. Pickles presses his tongue out just enough for the tip to poke through his lips, then licks the top nervously while impatiently waiting for new results. He’d have to order a new card. His mind rolls around the idea, using it as a garnish to cover that steaming pile of “something’s wrong” that’s filling his brain, and when the order goes through and Pickles sees the dreaded number return, his once empty stomach fills with hot, sticky acid. 

“Same amount,” she staunchly declares, and turns her computer screen towards Pickles so that any chance of this being a mistake on her part is immediately cast aside. A manicured finger jabs the name on the screen. “This _is_ your name, correct?”

Pickles frowns at the name. “Yeah,” he answers, then grimaces when his eyes reflexively settle on the “S” label lying just beneath the name, reflecting and taunting him with the horrid truth of the matter. “Uhmm…”

“Do you need me to cancel your order?” 

“What? No!” Pickles snaps at the question. Thankfully, the nurse barely reacts, and merely takes a step to the side, creating a small bit of distance between herself and the counter.

Eyes returning to the price, Pickles’ sweaty hands curl inward into vibrating fists. The weight of his legs double, and his chest racks with dread as he anxiously performs mental somersaults, trying to recall the exact amount of money he currently had in his account, and whether he’d be able to financially handle such a burden in the long run. It wasn’t like he spent money on anything major, aside from food. Surely had enough for a… wait, didn’t he recently loan Murderface a twenty? And he spent another thirty a week ago with Magnus at that one bar. And there was rent to account for. Gas. Clothes. _Shit_.

Pickles swallows a lump. His head fills with heat and cotton as he stares hopelessly at the amount, knowing he couldn’t afford the two pumps, much less a second dose midway through the month.

“Well?” The nurse asks, growing impatient.

What to do? The nurse is staring, waiting, judging. There are people behind, waiting for their prescriptions, too. Pickles can’t hold the line too long, nor does he want the displeasure of creating a scene.

Chewed nails dig into palms as Pickles contemplates a solution. If it wasn’t the card, then it had to be the insurance. Something happened with his insurance… something very recent. He only paid thirty-seven two weeks ago. He needed to call his insurers and figure out what the hell was going on. 

But first, he needs his prescription. That, above all else, cannot wait.

“One sec,” Pickles says, then reaches across the counter and picks up his card. It nearly slips out from his shaking hands. Ignoring the pharmacist’s disapproving stare, he jams it into his pocket, leaves the pharmacy and hurries out, races down the centermost hallway, and passes through a line of patients. His head turns, spins and reels until he finally makes it to the gift shop. At the far end, standing in front of the magazine selection, is Nathan. 

“Nate, dood!” Pickles says, voice giving way to panic. Heat bursts out his lanky shoulders, covering the top half of his arm in a red blemish. People turn and stare, and Pickles is damn sure they’re all reading his mind. They’re piecing it together.

Unaffected by the yell, Nathan slowly lifts his eyes from the article he’d been perusing. “Oh, hey Pickles,” he grumbles, and provides a brief nod.

Pickles chews his inner lip as he approaches. “Nathan, I need yer help,” he states with a partial whine, wincing at the sound of his failure seeping out his voice. A burn starts to build at the ends of his eyes. Shame riddles his face and darkens each freckle.

It takes Nathan a few seconds to pick up on his panicked state, but once he does, lowers his magazine. 

“Uh… what’s up?”

“I, uhh.” Pickles runs his hand through his thinning hair, feeling the moist drag left by the increasing fervor of terror and judgement. It’s just Nate, he thinks, but the mere idea of asking makes him sick. He shouldn’t have to do this in the first place, and he knows it, but cannot escape the sad fact that it's going to happen. Pickles’ gut folds again, spilling up the collected acid from before and burning the bottom of his already dry throat. Humiliated, Pickles sighs miserably at Nathan. “Can ya loan me some money, dood?”

* * *

The drive back to the apartment yields nothing but surmounting anxieties that only become more unbearable as traffic turns for the worst. Pickles cradles his box of testosterone the entire ride home, not listening to Nathan fill the void with rants about last night’s game, or Skwisgaar hogging the shower. Through the noise Pickles contemplates yet another series of mathematical equations and questions he hadn’t dared to think about in years. 

How far can he stretch these two bottles? 

Could he manage with only three pumps a day?

Could he pass with less?

Could he even afford just the one trip?

The last question makes Pickles queasy, and renders him silent for the duration of the ride. It’s been a while since he’s had to worry about this, and although he wants to talk about it with Nathan, he insists on waiting until he makes the call. It’s a trouble that cannot be easily expressed, even amongst close friends. It’s a problem that’s difficult to put in words.

…

The call is a bust.

A quick conversation reveals the recent changes made under Pickles’ already limited insurance policy. Change of plans. Apparently big name companies can just decide to tier their meds and declare certain ones less attainable than others. He asks for options. The on-call nurse mentions sex, about _females_ not getting the same access that men did, and if Pickles applies to have his sex changed, can get cheaper access to it once the proceedings go through the court. Oh, great. Thanks to improper planning on his behalf, he’s still a resident of Wisconsin, and the only way to be recognized as male is to let doctors near his junk. Of-fucking-course. What a load of crock. What crap, Pickles think. How the fuck is he supposed to get that shit done? Oh, what luck to be born in a red state, where the only way to get some recognition is to go under the knife.

There’s no way around it either. Pickles asks if he can get a month’s extension, a brief reprieve from the changes while he weighs his options. He pleads in front of the rest of the band who, at one point or another during the two-hour call, find themselves in the living room, drawn by Pickles’ frantic pacing, his erratic movement and uncharacteristic, aggressive responses to the nurse’s lack of empathy. 

The second Pickles finishes the call, he slams the phone into the receiver, letting the noise ring across the apartment, and stirring three of the four onlookers into flinching or turning away to avoid his abysmal expression. Murderface, who took a seat on the same couch Pickles occupies, awkwardly edges himself away to avoid emotional backlash. Skwisgaar taps his leg nervously, unsure of what he can say as he knows nothing of the matters regarding American health insurance. Even Nathan, who always has trouble reading the room, cracks his knuckles against the silence, eyes drawn on Pickles as he covers his sickly pale face with tight, white palms. 

It’s Magnus who remains emotionally uninvolved, and after listening to Pickles’ heavy, staggered breathing, stands up and suggests a drink. He pulls a twenty from his stained jeans and wriggles it in front of Pickles. Skwisgaar tells him to stop and give the man some space, but Pickles, who had long since given up on any hope of relying on the better graces of the universe, snatches it up and figures he’ll have to worry about rationing his meds later, and takes Magnus up on the offer. 

The others shirk in discomfort. Pickles takes no offense to their hesitation. He doesn’t know what to tell them, and when Magnus makes a turn for the door, snatches his keys and remains diligently unaffected by the call, Pickles decides to say the only thing he can think of and asks if anyone else wants to tag along.

Nathan is the first to rise from his seat, hands already patting down his back pockets to check if his wallet and ID was on his person.

The drive to the cheapest bar is just as awkward as the previous. Nathan sits backseat and stares through the window, muttering complacently. Skwisgaar shares the occasional phrase, points at someone he sees out the window, and Murderface complains about being stuck in the middle. Magnus avoids talking and covers the periods of strained silence with the volume set as high as his old Camry can tolerate. It’s Pickles who can barely stomach it, and wants to grab Magnus’ hand on the clutch and ask him if this is actually happening, if they’re really about to drink this unavoidable problem away with a single pitcher, but tries to save face and keep it all together.

He’s got to keep it all together.

 _Gotta keep it together_.

“So, what ims the plans?” Skwisgaar asks just seconds after sliding into the booth, next to Nathan. Pickles lifts his head to stare blankly at Skwisgaar. He shrugs back at Pickles, offering both palms up.

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Pickles replies, bearing teeth with a wide, exasperated frown. “Ya heard her on speaker, didn’t ya? I can’t get affordable access cause I ain’t loaded, and cause my damn state won’t recognize me as a dood, _dood_.” He slams small fists against the table, then sinks miserably into his seat. 

Magnus glances at Nathan. “Get us our drinks, won’t you?”

Nathan gestures at Pickles, reminding him who still carried the twenty. Magnus rolls his eyes and pulls out his wallet, takes out a single ten, then hands it to Nathan. 

“Whatever’s cheapest,” Magnus says, demeanor overcast with shadows as his stare breaks from Nathan, shifting back to a lamenting Pickles. He waits until Nathan’s at a distance, then leans forward. “So, what are your options?”

Eyes still on the table, Pickles answers: “I get reconstruction surgery.” 

Magnus picks up on the disgust in Pickles’ voice. “I’m guessing that’s not what you want?” 

Pickles cringes, elbows dragging hard against the table. “Even if I did, shit’s expensive,” he says, still shaking his head at the thought of going under the knife. Surgery is no joke, not something he can easily commit to without being sure. “I mean,” he adds, voice trembling at the mere idea, “I guess I could head west. Lotsa people get work done there. But even then, that’d take weeks, maybe months of plannin’. And I don’ think I can afford to wait that long, man.”

“Cantcha just…change your ID or shomething?” Murderface inquires. He nudges Magnus. “You know a guy who doesh schat, right?”

“That won’t work,” Magnus replies sorely. “This is a matter of state laws. And Pickles here is still a resident of Wisconsin.”

“Then becomes a Florida citiskins!” Skwisgaar proclaims, pointing a finger up at the brilliance of his idea. “Thens maybes you can gets them changes on your identifiskations?” 

“I’d have to check and see if that would even work,” Pickles replies, forlorn. He knows nothing about trans rights in Florida, but a nasty feeling in his gut tells him it’s the least of his worries. “Declarin’ residency takes weeks to get done. Gotta visit the DMV…fill in paperwork…fuck.”

Whether it was surgery or changing residency, everything would take time. There’s the appointments, the paperwork, making visits, traveling… and Pickles doesn’t have time for it. He has two weeks’ worth of testosterone, and even with stretching, maybe has a month or so before things get ugly.

“What about getting better insurance?”

All turn to see Nathan approaching the table.

“It ain’t that simple, dood,” Pickles answers, grimacing at distant memories. The table grows silent. Magnus pours a cup and offers it to Pickles, who snatches it up and downs it the second it reaches his lips. 

Nathan prods Pickles with a hand. “What if I shared my insurance with you?”

Pickles nearly spits up his drink. “What?” 

Nathan shrugs. “I’m under my dad’s insurance. S’real good. Maybe we can split.” 

“Again, not so simple, Nate,” Magnus says as he fills a second glass. “You can only share benefits with offspring or spouses. Nathan, since you’re under your father, if you married Pickles, you’d likely lose–” 

“Whoa, hold up!” Murderface interrupts with a hand smacking the table. “Whatch dish about marriage?”

“Yeah, Magnus?” Skwisgaar mutters, eyes shifting around their booth in case any onlookers had picked up on their conversation. “Why ams you talkin abouts marrying Pickle?”

“Yeah, that’s kinda gay, Magnus,” Nathan adds. 

Magnus rolls his eyes at the three. “You said you were considering sharing your benefits. Hypothetically, marriage is one way to go about it.”

“Still gay.” 

“Well, not really,” Pickles says after listening in on the conversation. All eyes rest on him. Pickles stares into the cup, at his yellowed reflection. “Technically, since I’m, err…”

“ _Go on,”_ Magnus mutters through the uncomfortable silence.

“Well, if I married a dood with good insurance, I could nab the benefits,” Pickles concludes, then picks up his cup and downs the rest of his drink. He brings the plastic cup down. “But let’s be real: that shit ain’t happenin’.”

“Yeah, plus you should really only marry for love,” Nathan replies, earning a few stares from the table.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Nate,” Pickles says, forcing a slight smile before turning to the rest of the band. “Let’s change the subject. I’m done thinkin’ about this fer the night.” 

The hesitation returns, but only for a moment. Magnus is already pointing at the half-empty pitcher, and states aloud that he used to have a twenty. It takes a few minutes for everyone to enter a similar state, but before long Nathan turns his attention to the TV tucked in the high corner and complains about a recent date. Skwisgaar joins in not much later, if only to help Nathan and fill the silence, and eventually, Murderface joins in with the noise and asks Magnus for a ride to the library, a ride to the strip mall…

The second drink leaves Pickles silly enough to forget the bullshit, but when the third hits and someone complains about money, it’s back to the math. His body sways with a hazy bliss, but his brain, no matter how flooded, can’t escape the reality. Another sip clouds the fear. Then another, and Pickles feels good again, but there’s that nagging voice that tells him to enjoy that beer, because after this he’s going to have to play it sober for a while. Beer cost money after all. And after hitting the table with a clammy hand, Pickles remembers he still has a job. A full bladder tells him to take a leak while his mind finishes the math and lets him know that even if he picks up an extra shift at work, it’s going to be hard. 

He makes it to the bathroom, stumbles into the stall and struggles with the lock before finally wriggling free of his jeans. 

The piss sobers him up more than he cares, and Pickles' mind work out some old names, a few telephone numbers that might help speed up the process. Hey, didn’t he know a guy who knows a really good lawyer…

“Sorry about the insurance, man.”

The fog bubble pops, if only momentarily. Pickles lifts his head up and follows the voice, spots the boots and long legs passing his stall before reaching the far end of a line of urinals.

“Y’know, life can be a real bitch,” he hears Magnus say. There’s the click of his belt buckle coming undone, and Pickles’ stream dwindles to a trickle as he watches Magnus’ legs sway to and fro. “And you, my friend, got _royally_ screwed.”

Pickles remains silent, staring down at the spindly legs that can’t remain still.

“I know what it’s like, Pickles,” Magnus continues with a laugh. “I’ve been fucked many times. By so called friends. Family. The government. Last one practically runs in my genes.”

Guy’s drunk, Pickle thinks. Magnus is drunk and about to go on some random tirade that has nothing to do with anything. Pickles rolls his eyes. He raises to a stand to flush, fixes his pants and when he turns, realizes the man is standing on the other side of the door. Pickles nearly stumbles into the toilet when he notices the shadow, the tip of Magnus’ boots breaking through the gap at the bottom of his stall.

Pickles frowns. “Uhh.”

Magnus presses his weight against the stall. “I’m not going to tell you what I think you should do,” he says, voice dropping to a low hush. Pickles raises a brow at the lack of gusto, and that haughty tremor he’s used to dealing with when it comes to Magnus’ usual rambles. “I do think; however, you’d be a fool not to try to cheat the system, and get what you need.”

Pickles sighs. “We already talked about this–”

“No, we haven’t,” Magnus says, hand hitting the stall. Pickles fidgets at the sudden outburst. “You, Murderface and the others cut me off before I could finish!”

The reaction feels unwarranted, but it has Pickles’ listening. Magnus was talking about insurance coverage, right? Then Murderface bitched about marriage, and then they dropped the conversation. Well, he dropped the conversation, but by that point, things had gone way off topic. His hand fiddles the lock, wondering what secrets Magnus has on him that Pickles already hadn’t considered. “You know something I don’t?”

“Not know, but _have_ ,” Magnus says with a playful slur. He takes a step back, and Pickles hears him fishing through something. Something hits the stall with a few sharp clicks. “Open the door.”

The noise startles Pickles, as does the sudden shift in Magnus’ voice, that sharp and radiant blade of confidence that worries Pickles, but fills him with the possibility of hope. Aside from some ludicrous ideas, Pickles can’t think of too many things Magnus has on him. But the sound of plastic hitting his stall door has Pickles thinking, his brain rewiring and arranging plans even though he insists he has no clue what the bastard’s about to drop on him. Nathan offering his father’s insurance plays in his head, and Pickles cringes at the idea of letting someone bring a scalpel to his goods as he summons the courage to answer the call. 

He opens the stall, and is met with a hand holding a light blue card.

Pickles stares at the card hovering in front of him. His shaking irises refuse to acknowledge it, and he glances at Magnus, hoping to god the man will put it away, break into one of his cruel laughs and tell him it’s a joke. This has got to be a joke. There’s no way he’s about to have this damn conversation in the men’s room with Magnus Hammersmith.

Despite his silence, Magnus offers up the card again, this time rudely shoving it into Pickles face until he has no choice but to take it. The moment Pickles has it, he turns, looking away from the smaller man and busying himself with washing his hands. “I’m not saying you need to take up the offer,” he says, lifting his eyes to stare at a hesitant Pickles watching him in the mirror. “Just make the call on the back of the card. See if you can’t…I don’t know, be vague enough when you ask questions.”

Pickles starts to flip the card over, but hesitates when he realizes what he’s doing, and the implication it leaves for even daring to think about it. Still, when he catches Magnus’ reflection ogling him, Pickles can’t figure if this is real, if this Magnus being serious, or Magnus drunk and running on a delirium that tells him this is a great idea. 

Magnus pulls away from the sink, then wipes his face with a wetted hand. “I’ll be needing that in a few days,” he says, then gives one final glance at Pickles before turning tail. “Don’t lose it.”

Pickles returns to the card in hand, stares at it while Magnus slips away and saves face.

Alright, no conversation then. It’s a relief, but places an insurmountable pressure on Pickles. Now he’s got to be the one to decide this on his own. Pickles is still reeling over his situation, and now he’s got Magnus’ health insurance card in his hands. 

It’s a kind gesture, he thinks. Awkward as hell, especially with Magnus being the vague asshat that he can be at times, but a helpful gesture nonetheless. Now alone, Pickles turns the card over and locates the number that would tell him everything he needs to know about Magnus’ coverage. The ten digits are a shot in the dark. There’s no guarantee Magnus’ plan will even cover Pickles’ needs, much less at an affordable cost. Not to mention the fact that none of it matters unless he’s willing to commit fraud. And…and, _god forbid it_ , he was thinking about it.

Pickles groans. He shoves the card into his pocket and races to the sink. He splashes water over his face, washing away the growing heat that now fills every pore of his being. He was thinking about it. God almighty, he was thinking about marriage. He was really thinking about it. He was thinking about committing fraud, just for some damn affordable T! 

When Pickles returns to the booth, he wears a straight face. The guys test the atmosphere, going silent for a brief second before Pickles slides in and asks what’s for dinner. He sees Magnus sitting just across from him, barely registering his presence, and offers Murderface the occasional nod, regarding whatever the younger man was hashing out between lisps and tipsy slurs. Nathan nudges him for money, and Pickles reminds him he’s broke for the next two weeks till he gets his paycheck. Skwisgaar brings up the name of a pizza joint. Magnus glances at Pickles, dark brown eyes settling and offering a split second of something that scares Pickles. It’s there, and gone the next moment, but Pickles is sure he saw a glimmer of sobriety, and when Pickles glances at the growing tower of plastic solo cups, realizes that, in his and everyone else’s haste to get drunk, failed to notice that Magnus never poured himself a drink.

* * *

Pickles joined Dethklok a little over eight months ago, and in that time, probably had, _at best_ , two months’ worth of conversing with Magnus. Not to talk low on a man offering his insurance and freedom, but Pickles cannot fully grasp why Magnus bothered in the first place. Unlike the other members, Magnus proves difficult to read, at least not without jumping to drastic conclusions. Pickles’ tries not to be judgmental, not when he knows Magnus is maybe twenty minutes away from the apartment right now, grabbing breakfast for the band, but it’s hard to pin a man whose mood jumps from one feeling to the next, often without warning.

Static elevator music fills the living room as Pickles waits for someone to answer his call. He tries to focus, singling in on the curiosity that is Magnus.

Magnus is aloof, perhaps more than he. A life on the road makes staying in one place for too long a damn distraction, and Pickles can only manage three straight days in the apartment before the desire to leave for parts unknown really starts to pick up. Magnus displays the same quirks, and gets antsy after a few days with the band, then departs for as long as a week before showing his face again, usually for practice. Magnus always answers the call when it comes to rehearsals and composing and Pickles has a fair amount of memories where Magnus makes logical, albeit conservative, choices with handling the music, but he can’t ascribe them as being pleasant conversations, wouldn’t describe any rehearsals with Magnus as a fond memory.

But Magnus is an odd one, at least compared to the other nomads Pickles befriended over the years. A successful couch sleeper needs to be social, make the right kinds of friends and keep them around. Hard to mooch off one’s good graces if you’re antisocial. Pickles doesn’t read Magnus as an introvert, but finds it hard to believe he and Magnus are the same. Pickles can easily name a dozen or so friends, associates, or kind strangers who’ve offered him their bed, couch or trailer thanks to his good nature or previous services, but he cannot recall a single name uttered from Magnus, aside those belonging to Dethklok. Magnus talks about visiting such-and-such place, and if Pickles is lucky, can remember a certain number of people being involved, maybe a bit of detail of the location or event, but nothing more. 

“Can you please provide us the medical record number?”

Pickles picks up Magnus’ card. “One sec…”

Magnus keeps to himself. Nothing wrong with a guy who values a private life, right? Everyone has a right to a few secrets, and that includes Magnus. And in the end, was it not Magnus who offered Pickles a potential way out of this mess? Was it not Magnus who picked him up from the station that one time he got lost, high out of his mind, and took the wrong metro line at 12 a.m.? Magnus was also the first to throw in his money towards booze. Magnus shares his weed with Pickles, too, near the end of the month. Magnus remembers to share, because it’s usually Pickles who finds him hidden under a blanket in the living room, or sequestered in Nathan’s room, brooding over bullcrap he refuses to share with the others. Maybe it’s a girl, or coming down from a bad high, but the guy gets mopey, and Pickles always offers him a water bottle, a conversation, or a bite of edible to shut him off for the rest of the day. So Magnus shares his weed, a bit of his molly and splits a bottle of that dark European stuff he manages to locate in the driest of times. Yeah, all in all, Magnus isn’t too bad. Quirky, sure. Moody at times, but the guy has Murderface following him around like a lost puppy, so Pickles can’t blame him for the occasional snap.

“Alright, Mr. Hammersmith,” the on-call nurse’s voice breaks through the train of thought once more. “We have your record on hand. What would like us to look at for you?” 

“Oh, uhm.” Pickles finds the clipboard listing out his benefits, then a pen. “Can ya do me a favor and read me my… outpatient services coverage, includin’ co-pay?” 

“Of course.”

Pickles starts checking off the goods, starts feeling weirdly elated by the fourth check, and his mind returns to Magnus by the eighth. Again, the dude isn’t bad. Personally, given the legality of this scenario, Pickles wishes the two of them talked more before this. Gay as it sounds, there’s a lot on the line, and all Pickles can really conclude when he thinks of Magnus is that he isn’t too bad of a guy. He’s a decent drinking buddy, that’s for sure. He’s well-written. Magnus can reach the top shelf and get the sweet onion chips that always end up so far tucked into the corner. Magnus…apparently has decent fucking coverage. 

“Just to be sure,” Pickles says, fighting the nervous grin as he twirls the telephone cord with a finger, “if I was, say, expectin’ to increase my family size…”

“Your coverage supports prenatal services,” the nurse answers smoothly. “Are you and your partner expecting?”

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout adding my girlfriend to the mix,” Pickles lies as he stares at the list of checks. “Ya mind lettin’ me in on how much it’ll cost, t’have that done?”

Magnus is… a pretty cool guy. Magnus likes to party like he does. Magnus doesn’t mind experimenting with the harsher prescription drugs, could mix syrups and make them taste so sweet, and he always seems to know where the get his hands on the nicest ecstasy. Pickles is also sure Magnus plays for both teams like him, but it’s difficult to gauge a radar when the target refuses to discuss weekend poon. 

After nearly an hour on the phone, Pickles hangs up, unsure whether he ought to feel relieved, or hate himself even more for letting it get this far. Nurse says he can add a spouse. No common law, but an actual, bona fide spouse. After that, it’s a simple matter of signing a few signatures and discussing payment. Pickles isn’t sure if this means he needs to rescind those extra hours he already asked his boss for, but hopes it doesn’t screw Magnus over that he changes his mind– _fuck_ , there he goes again. Pickles swears to himself this isn’t determined yet. He still needs to go to the DMV and declare residency, and Pickles is also waiting on a call to determine where Florida stands, as far as sex reassignment goes. There’s so much he needs to do before he decides what route is best, before he succumbs to asking Magnus to drive with him to the damn courthouse, pay a flat fee, get their license… 

Pickles sighs. One of these things can be completed in less than a week, a few hours if he’s willing to spend a day at the courthouse filing paperwork. Shit, knowing the temperament of their current neighborhood, they’d have to forgo the premarital courses in favor of a swift, fast…he’s thinking about it again.

Fuck, he’s going to do this. He’s going to ask Magnus to fake-marry him for coverage.

Pickles snatches up the card when he hears the lock rattle. The conversation between him and Magnus never left the bathroom, and Pickles wants to keep it that way until after he and Magnus have their talk.

The door bursts open, hitting the wall with a loud bang that Pickles is sure wakes up the remaining occupants of the apartment, and quite possibly next door. Maybe even the landlords. Pickles readies a complaint, but then Magnus rushes in, pants stained wet, and stomps in with a gait that screams murderous intent.

Murderface crawls behind, take-out bag hanging low as he hesitantly scuttles after Magnus. “I shaid I wash showry!”

“Don’t fucking talk to me.” Magnus turns towards the kitchen. He tears several sheets of paper towels and starts patting his jeans. Pickles stands up, eyeing Murderface who tries to creep closer, only for Magnus to catch him in his peripheral and snap. “Eat your damn food and stay out of my face!” 

Murderface glances at the bag, raises his stare and produces a nervous smile. “Dude, aren’t cha-”

Magnus raises a wad of wet, browned paper towel at Murderface. “Leave me the _fuck_ alone, William, or I swear to god I’ll toss–” 

“Mornin’.”

Both men turn and see Pickles smiling awkwardly at them, his white teeth breaking the tension building in the tiny kitchen. Magnus stares, and the deepened contours around his eyes begin to fade. He sighs through his nostrils, then grabs the roll of paper towels.

“I’m going to clean my car,” he grumbles, then drops the soaked ball of towels and leaves the kitchen. 

Murderface steps aside before Magnus can lash out, and the man exits the apartment as swiftly as he had entered it. He slams the door behind him, and this time Pickles is sure he heard Nathan in his bedroom grunting awake. Pickles sights and takes a step toward the door, but then stops when he sees Murderface sulking at the counter.

He glances at Murderface. “What’d you do?”

“Shpilt shome shoda,” Murderface answers, then raises the bag that, upon further inspection, is covered in a layer of sugary beverage. “Wash an acshident. Your burrito should shtill be good.” 

Pickles wrinkles his nose, more bothered that he’s going to have to talk to a pissed Magnus, instead of a slightly disgruntled one. Sure, he can wait till the end of the day and try his round with Magnus then, but seeing Murderface mope and nervously fiddle with the food moves something within him. Maybe it’s pity, but he figures now is the best time to ask. Magnus is upset, but the conversation will get his mind off Murderface. 

Best of all, if Murderface and the food remain inside, then Pickles can have this talk privately without fear of anyone picking up on how desperate he’d become in the last three days, and how promising Magnus’ insurance was in comparison to what he currently possessed.

“Whatever, I’ll talk to ‘em,” Pickles says right as Murderface finishes pulling out a Styrofoam platter drenched in sticky residue. 

“You will?” Murderface places the food on the countertop. “I mean, ya’ don’t half-to. I got thish…he, he’s jush a little moody. Woke him up early, plus I wash foolin’ around, and–”

“Dude, get the soda off my burrito, an’ I’ll handle Mags,” Pickles insists, then jabs a finger against the sticky bag. “Wipe my jalapeños, too. Don’t need that shit tastin’ like root beer.”

Murderface thanks him for the trouble, though still insists it’s not that big of a deal. Whatever, Pickles just needs the guy to stay out of his way until after he pops the question. Fake proposal or not, Pickles doesn’t need Murderface around when he’s about to get on a knee or two.

He finds Magnus hunched over the passenger side of the car, soaking up as much soda as he can from the interior, and spitting repeated swears that leave Pickles wondering if now really is a good time. After three days of research, and a checklist of opportunities, and cutting his dose by one pump, Pickles knows he can’t wait forever. Better to rip the band-aid off now. 

“Hey, dood,” Pickles says once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and notices Magnus flinching at the sound of his voice. “You, uhh, need any help?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, hope ya don’ mind if I jus’ hang around then?”

Magnus doesn’t say anything and throws another wet clump of towels out of the car. Pickles edges closer, eyes on the wiry body, testing each rough snap of the elbow as Magnus worked into the chair.

He leans against the car. “I got yer card.”

“Yeah, and?” It comes off harsh, but when Pickles considers retreating into the apartment for a few hours, he is stopped when Magnus exits the car.

He rests a shoulder against the frame, and glares at Pickles. For a second, Pickles expects rejection. No one looks him in the eyes like that cause they’re thinking happy thoughts, but when Pickles backs off, Magnus rolls his shoulders, and suddenly there’s a change to his demeanor. 

“You figure out what you’re going to do?” he asks, and it catches Pickles off-guard. Like before, it comes out sounding rough, but it isn’t nearly as off-putting as before.

Pickles is still careful. His eyes lower, and he tucks a hand into his pocket while trying his best to let the other hand casually hang. “Well, uhh, I finished the call this morning?”

“And?”

Pickles chuckles. “Well, ya got decent insurance.”

“Ok, so?”

A pout. Magnus is not making this conversation any easier.

“So?” Pickles faces the discomforting glare head-on. “So…why are ya’ offerin’ to help me again?” 

Magnus scoffed at the question. “You got fucked. I’m willing to help. Nothing else should matter.”

Short, sweet and to the point. It’s almost flattering, but it makes Pickles nervous. Magnus is a cool guy, he tells himself again. Magnus is pissed because Murderface spilled soda over the cushion, but he’s still chill. He laughs at Pickles’ jokes. He offers him rides to the recycling center. Cleary, the guy must see something in him.

Pickles combs a hand through his short dreads. “Yeah, well…”

Magnus breaks from the car and crosses his arms. “You don’t want to go through it, just tell me.”

Pickles frowns. “What? No! I wanna do it!”

“Then what’s with the pussy-footing?”

Pickles sways nervously at the words. “Well, I gotta know if this is alright wit’ ya?” he says, cracking a slight grin. His stomach twists, and he starts to notice how warm it is. It’s not even ten yet, and he’s a sweaty mess. Still, he persists. “Y’know this is illegal, and shit?”

“Yeah.” 

“And yer really cool with it?

“Yeah.”

“It won’t be a burden? Addin’ me to yer insurance?” Pickles starts tripping over the words. His heart starts racing. Magnus starts to blur, and Pickles can’t tell if it’s because he’s embarrassed, or starting to believe that maybe he’s got Magnus all wrong, and he really is a great guy, just rough around the edges.

Magnus shrugs. “If it was, I wouldn’t have offered.”

The man says it like it’s nothing, but it leaves Pickles’ head spinning. The reality of the situation unfolds again. Pickles relives the moment with the cashier one final time, the phone call from hell, and now he’s got Magnus telling him this isn’t a big deal.

Oh, he won’t have to take up those extra hours. Won’t have to ration his T. Won’t have to worry about passing or bleeding.

Pickles fights the urge to smile. “ _Oh._ Well, yeah. I wanna do it,” he says, feeling the nervous heat radiate off his shoulders as he tries for a chuckle. It comes off more as a whine. “Beats rationin’ the T.” 

Magnus shrugs again. “Alright then,” he says, then removes himself from the car and stares expectantly at Pickles. _“Well?”_

“Well, what?”

A sly grin spread across Magnus’ once unmoving visage. “What do we say?”

“Oh. Thanks,” Pickles says, expelling a short breath of relief from hearing it. “Y’know, this–”

Magnus shakes his head. “Nu-uh,” he says, grin spreading. He points at the ground. “Get on one knee.”

Pickles frowns. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

Magnus breaks into a cackle. “Pfft, nope.” He slaps the roof of his car, snickering and pointing a finger at Pickles. “The look on your face though.”

“Asshole.” Pickles wipes his forehead. Just the idea of getting on one knee and begging Magnus for his damn hand. It’s a dick move. A sick joke. The kind of joke Pickles thinks would earn a mild, if not awkward chuckle for him, were he not the target. 

“Now, now.” Magnus says. He’s still harboring the grin. “That’s no way to speak to your future husband,” he comments, then pats the cushion of the passenger seat. “A bit damp, but good enough for the road.” He gestures at Pickles, pointing a finger that shifts into a thumb aimed at the damp cushion. “Well, get in.”

“What for?”

Magnus makes a face. “We have work to do." 

“Shit, you want to do this now?”

“Well, you said you didn’t have any options, correct?” Magnus points out so eloquently. “And the courthouse is two streets away from the DMV.”

And like that, everything began to topple. Magnus steps aside, and Pickles sees the passenger car, and he realizes he’s about to get married. 

Butterflies fill his empty stomach. “Oh.”

Magnus’ grin turns from sly to excited. He walks over to the driver’s seat, unlocks it, but pauses just as he’s about to slip inside. “Oh, once second,” he suddenly says, then leans his elbows on top of the car. He brings his hands to his mouth. “Hey, Murderface! Get over here!”

Still in shock, Pickles’ eyes go agape in horror. “Magnus, what are you–”

Murderface peers nervously from the apartment door. Pickles quickly notices he’s not the only one. Nathan’s behind him, enjoying his breakfast and overlooking whatever scenario had so rudely awakened him.

Murderface inches to the railing. He’s visibly nervous. “Y-yeah?”

“Grab the food!” Magnus yells, then gestures at the car. “I need you to tag along with us.”

“You’re not mad?” 

“At you? Never!” Magnus shakes his head at the question. It’s apparently enough for Murderface, because the second Magnus finishes, the guy’s back in the apartment, then races past Nathan with something in his hands. Pickles is agape. The butterflies in his stomach are attacked, viciously consumed by a swarm of locusts as he spots Skwisgaar joining Nathan at the front door, eyes settling on the three of them collecting around Magnus’ car.

It suddenly dawns on Pickles that he might not be ready to share the wonderful news. 

“Sho whatsh the plan, dude?” Murderface asks, offering a morsel in Magnus’ direction.

“Pickles and I need to tie the knot, so we’re headed to the courthouse, and I’m pretty sure we’ll need a witness,” Magnus replies with a straight face. He snatches up the burrito that Murderface nearly drops, but doesn’t bother to save the small cup of jalapeños that tumble out from Murderface’s slack grip. Unaffected, Magnus continues, playfully nudging Murderface by the elbow. “Think you can sit quiet for a few hours without pissing off a cop?”

Magnus breaks into a mean snicker while Murderface stares blankly at him, jaw sinking as he processes the words.

He’s not the only one. Magnus doesn’t blare it out, but he said it loud enough that Pickles merely has to glance up and see Nathan and Skwisgaar hanging by the railing, mouths open and forming voiceless words as they, too, carefully access the severity of the situation. 

No one is pleased, Pickles cynically muses to himself, and if he could think of a joke to say, or some reassuring line to let everyone know this was temporary, that none of it mattered, or, _hell,_ proudly proclaim he was about to get gay-married, he would’ve. He absolutely would have, but couldn’t, because no matter how Pickles tries to spin it in his head, he couldn’t escape the sound of Magnus’ maniacal laughter as he loads Murderface into the car, Magnus' elated voice as he calls for Pickles to get inside, to await his fate as they head for the courthouse. It’s a sound that brings dread, that makes Pickles feel weirdly exposed. 

It’s being married to Magnus Hammersmith, but by the time Pickles reaches this conclusion, the three have already parked, and Magnus is poking, practically jabbing his arm, demanding if he had any change for parking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get married and it's about as romantic as you can expect.

A handful of tap water splashes over Pickles’ clammy forehead, suds stinging his left eye while he rubs his face clean. Jurors and other unlucky visitors are lined across the wall, backs reflecting in the mirror. A security guard leaves a stall, pauses when he notices Pickles snorting out soap from his nostrils, and passes through without washing his hands. Aside from him, no one pays mind to Pickles’ weary expression, hands clenching the sink’s edge as murky foam drips off the tip of his nose and chin. He waits until the sink is drained, then brings his head up to meet bloodshot eyes staring back at him, reflecting a day’s worth of mockery, yelling and tedious driving. 

It’s been several grueling hours, and he’s exhausted.

The way Magnus worded it, he made it sound like they could get married in a few hours. Despite the hell that was the ride to the court, what with Magnus going off at Murderface regarding the legitimacy of this plan, Pickles secretly hoped they could get in and out of the courthouse in one, maybe two hours’ tops. Sure, there would be the stares, the hushed whispers and“faggot” hissed in their direction, but Pickles figured he could handle the occasional stint of homophobia and passive-aggressive remarks if it meant never having to return to court again.

Instead, the day’s been an unending cycle of waiting in line, watching clerks give him the nastiest look whenever Magnus pointed a finger at him to silently indicate that, yes, this was his “bride-to be,” and then loudly snap and argue about rights and all that bullshit. Hours of standing, taking singular steps, getting shoved, bumped and flipped off by jackasses looking to pay their tickets or finalize their third divorce. Everyone’s in a mood at the court, and Pickles wants nothing more than to pummel the next poor soul that steps on his foot, but can’t because he needs Magnus’ health insurance. With just a bottle and a half left of T to his name, Pickles looks the first clerk in the eyes when he hands her his ID, watching the skins around his nose and eyes wrinkle when she reads it over, then Magnus’, and remarks she’s not in the mood for jokes. The same woman demands him to say, up and front, that he’s still legally female. Magnus kicks the smooth metal railing, because he’s already had it with the accusations, and just wants to sign the damn license and go home. He starts to swear. Murderface cowers from the heated debate, then realizes he saw something “intereshting” just around the corner, and leaves Pickles to deal on his own. Everyone watches Magnus yell, call forth the attention of security, and although Pickles feels like vomiting, finds it distractingly ironic that it's Magnus and not him getting pissed that his current identification isn’t enough to prove this is within legal parameters.

Two hours into this misadventure, and it’s after another secretary pulls them aside to file their request, do they discover they need copies of their birth certificates and social security number. Magnus pales at the word, then asks about passports. Pickles internally reels as it’s revealed there are papers they need to sign, and copies they need to turn in to make this official. What’s supposed to only be a few hours turns out to be a waste of time.

“Sho, thatsch it then?” Murderface inquires, leaving the old fold-out chair and rubbing his rear end as Pickles and Magnus leave the clerical station behind.

“No,” Magnus answers before Pickles has time to consider if they should arrive on another day, one where the broad who snuffed and wasted their time was either off, or on break. “Pickles and I need some papers, is all. We’re coming back today.”

“ _Today_?” Pickles parrots, unsure if he should feel grateful Magnus is willing to make the drive, or nauseous because it means another round of revealing personal information to government-funded, close minded ingrates.

“Well, obviously.” Magnus rolls his eyes before snatching Pickles by the shoulder, ensnaring him in a tight hold as he leads him and Murderface back to the car. “ _Unless_ you changed your mind?”

“What? No.”

“Alright, so we’re in agreement.” A fresh grin spreads across Magnus’ once pensive stare. A light bulb’s flickering in that head of his, and like the tantrum Magnus pulled before, Pickles wants to be grateful and thank the heavens someone here is planning, but can’t get past the invisible hands going at his neck.

A half hour later, and they’re back to the apartment where Nathan stands by the door, mouth sinking to an oval as Pickles tries to explain the situation while Magnus tears everything apart to locate his passport. After another twenty minutes of Magnus swearing he didn’t leave his identification in a storage unit, they find the damn booklet and drive to the nearest printing services store, with Skwisgaar and Nathan in tow. While Magnus and Nathan scavenge for change in the car to make copies, Pickles carefully explains to Skwisgaar and Murderface that he needs them to visit the DMV in his stead. By this point, three hours have slipped past, and the only thing Pickles’ has accomplished today is a phone call and half his breakfast. There’s an ugly voice telling him he’s not going to get married today, and this is all for naught, but he still relays to Skwisgaar and Murderface the questions they need to ask regarding residency in Florida. 

It’s nearing two by the time they reach the DMV, and Pickles notices a line coming out from the sun-bleached brick building. The parking lot is a bitch, and as Magnus attempts a wide turn to get as far away from the front of the building as possible, Pickles arduously repeats the same questions Skwisgaar and Murderface need to remember once they reach a registrar. There’s cars honking behind them, and Pickles can barely hear his own voice over the chaos. Murderface and Skwisgaar look at him like lost pets in search of some purpose, and Nathan’s sticking his head out of the car’s window, sending threatening glares to anyone daring to call them names for driving down the wrong lane.

“You, uh, got this, right?” Pickles murmurs as Murderface shuts the back-passenger door.

“Sho thing, dude,” Murderface replies without looking back.

“Yeah, we gots this,” Skwisgaar confirms, shrugging unenthusiastically as Pickles sinks into the worn cushions, just before Magnus pushes on the accelerator to drive between a small gap.

It’s just under four hours when they return to the long lines, this time with Nathan as their possible witness. Though Pickles hasn’t said a word to him since breaking the news of the marriage, he’s thankful it’s Nathan and not Murderface. William’s far from a bad guy, but knowing the bullshit that lies ahead, would rather deal with Nathan’s questionable glares over whatever lame jokes Murderface would attempt once they reach the altar.

Clerk _numero dos_ checks his birth certificate against his ID, lowers both and, with a pensive glare, asks if this is a joke. By this point, Pickles is almost ready to call it quits and put all his eggs into Skwisgaar and Murderface’s basket. This amount of stupid isn’t worth it, he thinks, and reminisces of the days back in Snakes and Barrels, when it was just his manager that had to deal with this amount of bullshit. Thankfully, Magnus lacks the filter Pickles has guarding his every corner, and explodes upon hearing the question. 

“Are you fucking with us? His ID and certificate are right in front of you!” Magnus slams a fist against the counter in retaliation. The woman at the register bounces back, taking her old, squeaky chair with her. The couple behind them shirk from the reaction, and Nathan warns them that there is an officer patrolling the room and fingering his walkie-talkie.

Luckily for them, the short outburst does the trick. The lady readjusts her glasses, picks up the copies of Pickles’ documentation, and says everything is legally in order. Technically, there’s nothing stopping them from tying the knot, she states through tightly curled lips. She turns to her computer monitor, let’s Magnus and Pickles know they’ll get their license, that it’ll cost sixty dollars, but they can forgo the fee if they’re willing to take marriage courses.

“You have anything open later today?” Magnus asks her through a constrained voice. “No, not the counseling,” he corrects her midway with a loud snap of his fingers, “I mean _seeing_ a judge. When can that be arranged?”

After some rapid clicks, she reveals they might be able to squeeze a courthouse wedding next Monday afternoon. Today’s really busy, and the computers are acting slow. Pickles wonders if it’s the truth, if the lady is buying time for another excuse, but then the screen finishes loading, and she says there’s a possibility for today, if they don’t mind spending the next two hours in the courthouse.

“You will need to bring your marriage certificate, a witness and,” after giving Pickles a testing stare, she adds, “a good amount of proof of identification.”

_Really_ , _lady?_ After all the “legal parameter” bullshit, too. Too tired from the driving, waiting in line, making copies, and Magnus freaking out at every other word, Pickles decides to limit his frustrations to the form of a mere grimace.

“Alright, got it,” he mutters, breaking away from the counter to turn and face the equally frustrated crowds behind them.

“But the license is still legal?” Magnus inquires rather politely.

“That’s correct,” the woman replies with a sickly voice. “That is, as soon as you two pay.”

The issue of money is raised once more, and Nathan saves the day by offering his card. Remembering that he already owes Nathan for covering his T, Pickles tries to stop him, but Nathan shrugs it off and declares it a wedding gift. 

“Can’t say no to a wedding gift.” He yanks his credit card out from his wallet and hands it to the clerk. The woman at the counter raises an intolerant brow, makes the world’s most passive-aggressive hum, then takes the card by the nails.

Magnus snickers at Nathan. “I was hoping for silverware, but I guess this will do.”

Jokes aside, Pickles is grateful and wastes no time offering a mild, but humble nod. “Tanks, Nate.”

Once the fees are handled, the clerk does a few more tricks with her computer, leaves and returns with receipt and license. She hesitantly offers the papers to Magnus, reviews the delicate time frame to get their marriage officiated before it’s voided by the state, and though Magnus hoards the paper in his hands, clinging to it like it’s a map to some treasure, Pickles senses a change in the air. The woman goes over the steps one more, but the words fall off a cliff and crash into a sea of nothingness. Pickles’ attention sits solely on the certificate. He sees the papers in Magnus’ hands and realizes the hardest part is technically over. After this, it’s a matter of getting it officiated by a judge in a few days, maybe even a few hours if he can summon the strength. Shit, not even a judge. Anyone tolerant with the right credentials can officiate their marriage.

Pickles blinks, and as Magnus slaps a hand on his back, turns to Nathan and shows him the small slip of paper that signifies the difference between affordable health care and near-constant dysphoria, Pickles remembers a guy who used to be a pastor. He’s sure he knows a gal, too, who’s into witchcraft and exotic fire dancing, that also possesses the creds to marry them. Sure, she isn’t a Catholic priest, but Pickles isn’t feeling too picky about his vows. He imagines Magnus possess the same sentiment, and wonders if there’s a way to convince him to forgo the court wedding for something more casual, and in better company.

Then, it hits him. Four hours into this hell, and for the first time since entering Magnus’ car with an equally dumbstruck Murderface, Pickles’ is back to thinking, remembering names of old acquaintances, and knows he can slip out yet another mess. That’s all this is now, just a mess that can be cleaned. The hard shit’s done, and he can start living again. Planning a wedding isn’t part of his usual agenda, but it beats figuring out how to stretch his pumps.

Peace of mind.

Relief.

Security.

Pickles watches Magnus fold the license and stow it into a manila envelope, and despite Pickles never touching it, looking at his and Magnus’ name coupled together, is oddly thankful the man’s been so persistent today. The past outbursts and demands no longer seem so off-putting or embarrassing. If anything, it’s a good thing Magnus raised his voice, made the last clerk so uncomfortable and essentially forced her to process their request. A damn good thing, Pickles mind repeats as he drifts closer towards the outer rim of survival mode, to the world of drums, drugs, booze and music. All that’s left is the ceremony, someone to sign it off, and whatever information Murderface and Skwisgaar picked up while at the DMV.

After four hours of going in circles, Pickles’ muscles lax. His face is sore, but no longer strains to keep it straight, to maintain some impression of control. Beyond the lines, men and women being processed to various rooms and floors, Magnus telling Nathan he had everything under control, and penny-pinching lawyers introducing themselves to their next case, there’s Pickles’ voice. A voice in his head that isn’t sending him dreadful news, posing questions he cannot easily answer. Instead, it’s telling him he can return to normal. He blinks and the world seems a little bit brighter. The sounds surrounding him are clearer, and Nathan and Magnus look better than ever. His stomach untwists. A rapid beat plays in his heart. Thoughts return. Pickles is back to normal.

He realizes he’s got to pee.

“One sec, doods,” Pickles says, then points to the men’s room. “Gotta take a leak.”

Magnus replies with a quick nod. “We’ll be outside.”

“Hurry up,” Nathan says. “Still gotta pick up Murderface and Skwisgaar.”

“If by pick up, you mean walk over and inform them we’ve a courthouse wedding in a few hours…”

The rest of the conversation turns into a panicked desire to find an empty stall, and once Pickles finishes, is left an empty pit. Exhaustion smacks him right as he turns on the faucet. And now, after four, soon to be pushing five hours, there’s still some soap in his eyes.

His bladder is empty, but so is his stomach, and when Pickles tries to think of something nearby that’s both cheap and fulfilling, feels the hollowness spread to parts of his chest and throat. His lower back is aching from being tense and standing straight all afternoon long, from waiting in crowded lines and dealing with almost neurotic levels of anxiety, all while keeping a straight enough face each time Magnus or Nathan looked his way to ask him a question about _everything_ , and yet, never appearing nearly as affected as he felt. There’s a burn settling over him, and it’s not just the harsh soap that’s making his eyes sting anymore. Pickles is sure he knows the name of that girl who can finalize his and Magnus’ marriage… Courtney? If he’s gotta endure the whole ceremony, he’d rather it be with people he can tolerate. Bleached out bandanas, white sage incense and blue hair. Yeah, it’s Courtney, and if Pickles calls her ahead and explains the situation, he’s sure she’ll fit him in ASAP, maybe even gives the guys a nasty look if they try humiliating him any further than what they intend once he finally breaks the news. Any option is better than having to return to this hellhole.

His eyes really start to burn. Pickles grabs another handful of water and submerges his face. Still gotta pick up Murderface and Skwisgaar and figure out the process to become a Florida resident. There’s a whole fun-filled adventure there, and Pickles cringes at another set of paperwork he needs to fill out, but figures of he can survive an afternoon in a courthouse, dealing with homophobic shitwads, then he can bear through whatever the DMV has in store for him. It’s just moving, after all.

Pickles raises his head away from the sink, towards his tear-ridden reflection. Damn soap.

…

Several short dreads fall forward as he nears the mirrors, catching irritated tears collecting near the edges of his eyes.

He snickers.

Damn.

It’s the craziest feeling.

An hour ago, he’s got a woman telling him two men can’t marry, insisting she has the authority to deny them services. Bitch was sending him the nastiest vibes through tightly-sealed lips, stabbing at him with her icy blue glare like she wanted nothing more than to light their papers with a flick of a match. Two hours ago, he was staring hopelessly at copies of papers, with Magnus shoving another five sheets at him and Murderface, telling them to organize it while he photocopies his passport. Three, and his pits were soaking his top while he filed the original request with a half-chewed pen he found in one of the cushions in Magnus’ car. Four, and…

A wet, uneven sigh spills out from Pickles, into the sink where it bounces and fills the bathroom with a haggard cough. The weight holding him down is gone, but a new heaviness crushes Pickles once he locks on to the mirror and relives the events a third time. Then, a fourth.

All this for a damn license. For some T. To exist.

It never gets any easier, and when it finally hits he’s just a few phone calls away from returning to normalcy, to being himself again, Pickles utters another tired whine. He hears the aggressive questions being relayed to him once more, this time with exaggerated annoyance and displeasure. He sees Magnus yelling at the woman on the other side of the counter, making demands Pickles should’ve done in the first place. Why the hell didn’t he threaten the old witch with his soda, or ask if she was blind, or anything? Anything but the silence? The perpetual choke? It never gets any easier… and the irritation becomes too much to ignore.

Fuck, he’s really crying. Crying on his damn wedding day.

Were it any other day, he might’ve had something funny to say about it. In another universe, he’s sure he’s already laughing about how ironic it all is. To think, five hours ago he was afraid of getting married to Magnus, and now?

He watched Magnus hit the counter one final time before shaking his head clear of the memory. Pickles counts the seconds he has left before he can no longer blame the soap for the streams pooling and racing down his cheeks. He turns the faucet on full blast and takes another handful of cold water to his face. It gets into his nostrils, mixes with the snot and tears, burning ducts and forcing a series of coughs. When the waters washes away, Pickles rubs his eyes, rubs his cheeks and every inch of his face so when he checks his reflection one last time, can’t make out the red from the tears carrying all those old feelings he hadn’t dared visit in a long time, and the anger for having to go through it in the first place.

It’s over now, he thinks, reaching for the paper towels.

_Yer married now._

_And when ya go out there, yer goin’ to smile._

_None of this bothers ya in the slightest._

* * *

The drive isn’t nearly as awkward as Pickles thought it would be, though it’s far from pleasant. He’s technically married to Magnus, and he thinks that alone should warrant a conversation between them, but when he leaves and cracks a grin at the two, it’s clear neither Magnus or Nathan feel comfortable divulging. Clearly rubbing his face raw wasn’t enough to hide the fact there was more to his trip to the men’s room than a simple leak. When the engine roars and Magnus bolts out of the parking lot, he complains to Pickles about the sticky residue coating his pants, and the burden of being surrounded by people far less intelligent than either of them. Pickles allows Magnus’ frustration to fill the void that would otherwise consume the space between them and Nathan. He’s seen Magnus go on raves, but some of the insults he’s spittin’ are a bit intense, given the context. As they draw closer to the DMV, and the sight of the courthouse building shrinks and turns obscure behind trees and other establishments in the dashboard mirror, Pickles disassociates, listens and finds Magnus more agreeable. A strange high litters his brain while Magnus talks, and Pickles smiles, nodding along with Nathan, and tossing the occasional “sure ting, dood,” and “yer right, Mags.”

He lets the man have his moment to shine, be a hero.

Shit, Magnus _is_ a hero. What a thought.

They find Murderface and Skwisgaar near the gated entrance of the DMV, and the second Nathan points out the two standing at the corner, swings the door open right as the car slows to a halt. Skwisgaar swoops in, then Murderface, and when Magnus slams on the gas, there’s only the labored growl of the engine, and his two bandmates nervously fidgeting in their seats, trying to read the room.

Pickles cuts the silence in half by asking for some good news. Skwisgaar hands him a page of notes he’s scribbled and copied nearly word for word, while Murderface erupts a series of complaints to Magnus about long lines and rude women giving him the stink eye because he accidently bumped into a few, or just so happened to be caught staring at them for too long. 

According to Skwisgaar, applying for residency is straightforward, though with his legal name now up in the air, figures it’s going to be a wait before he can bother taking any further steps. Everything makes enough sense, though it’s clear by the multitude of steps this will be a process. A few weeks, at least.

“Tanks, Skwis,” he says, then waits for Murderface to grumble the last of his whines before tacking on, “yah, too, William.”

He waits for Murderface to roll his eyes, say it was nothing, and move on to subjects centered on himself. Instead, the guy shoves his crossed arms up to his chest, looks awkwardly between Skwisgaar and Nathan, and states a hesitant “ _Sho_ …”

“How did ‘ems goes?” Skwisgaar finishes, knee suddenly bouncing in anticipation.

Pickles glances up at the mirror, spotting two sets of anxious stares. “Well, _err_.”

“We have a courthouse wedding in a few hours,” Magnus finishes for him. He holds the wheel firmly, eyes never leaving the road. “You’re welcome to attend, though it’s not required.”

Murderface’s jaw sinks. “Holy shit.”

“We’re gonna need rice,” Nathan states with a growl.

Skwisgaar scratches his brow. Leaning forward, he asks, “So’s then, you two ams husband and husband?”

“Not quite,” Pickles replies, crooked grin souring at the edges. “But that’s the gist of it. ‘Till I officially figure this resident ting, I’m married to Mags here, as his… _partner_.” Three sets of eyes turn to one another before breaking into a series of nods and bereft agreements. Pickles glances to the driver seat, at Magnus attentively at the wheel. He gives the man a mild shove with the elbow, earning a slight glance from him. Pickles grins. “Not that there is anythin’ wrong with it, dood. Bein’ married ‘n all.”

Magnus offers a calming nod. “Of course.”

“So, we ams going to a weddinks?”

“If you want,” Magnus answers flatly, lifting a hand and signaling a passive wave. “Otherwise, I go back to the apartment, change my pants, and anyone who doesn’t want to play witness can stay behind.”

Right away, the tension in the car is replaced with a new energy. Through the mirror, Pickles watches the men behind him turn to one another, eyes shifting and testing the severity of the situation against the good news, the want for food versus the desire to watch Pickles and Magnus humiliate themselves and officiate their marriage. Then, as Magnus makes another turn, Murderface mentions he owes it to Magnus to be there, watch him and Pickles, and maybe take a few pictures.

“For the memorieesh,” Murderface explains, though there’s a cruel glint in his eyes that suggest otherwise. Pickles is already envisioning the throw-away camera aimed directly at him while he stands uncomfortably at the altar. Nathan’s there, too, roughly pelting rice in his direction, and Skwisgaar is… well, oddly enough Pickles sees Skwisgaar paying some respects to an otherwise ridiculous event.

As the guys turn to one another to discuss their options, Pickles mulls over whether he has the strength to return to the courthouse. It takes only a flash of imaginary, but critically judgmental glares aimed at him to reaffirm that he wants nothing to do with the place, and to seek out better alternatives. Call some friends. Set something up. No more humiliation. Pickles loves the guys, and were it any other day, might allow himself to be the laughingstock of the afternoon, but today Pickles absolutely cannot return. He can’t. Can’t. 

Pickles utters a discouraging chuckle; a whimpered rumble from his emptied, nervous stomach. “So, ‘bout that weddin’ in a few hours...”

“Getting cold feet?” Magnus asks with a slight grin, but when he brings the car to a stop, hits the brake rough. The recoil isn’t enough to send a message, but the act does cause Pickles to lunge forward a little. The pressure against his chest is mild compared to the prospects of returning to that dreaded place.

“Jus’ I was thinkin’,” Pickles says, glancing up at his own reflection in the mirror. “As long as anyone with the creds marries us, it doesn’t matter who it is, right?”

All eyes rest on Pickles as he tries to stew up the next set of words. AHestruggles getting the idea out, the exact feeling that chokes his throat when he searches for a comparison, a similarity the rest of the passengers in the car can relate with. To say he endured a level of degradation that left him drained, a mere shell of himself, simply wouldn’t do. Realistically, or at least from a practical sense, Pickles has been through worse. Bar fights. Car chases. Career implosion. Threats of homelessness. But it’s the eyes, the questions and those who ultimately have power over him with the click of a few keys that leaves Pickles at a loss for words, tongue-tied and in search for a clearer meaning.

_They wouldn’t get it._

His eyes shift to Magnus’, now glancing at him with help from the rearview. “Here me out, I know a girl up north who can tie the knot. Get all the work done without–”

_Without making me feel like a freak_. The words trace his tongue, but never leave the mouth.

“–Causing a hassle,” Pickles concludes in its stead. The ends of his mouth curl inward at the sour aftertaste, the words he dared not say. A set of brown eyes tests his resolve, poised at him as if readying for an attack. Pickles chews his inner cheek and says, “Look, we got sixty days, right? Lemme see if I can get her on the phone while ya change? I know Courtney: she’ll marry us if I ask.”

“And if she doesn’t answer?”

The sudden question arises from the back. Pickles breaks from Magnus to respond, figuring it’s more a random comment than question, but finds Nathan’s hands folded together in earnest contemplation, his frown lacking its severity. It’s the right amount of worry that makes Pickles second guess himself, but only for a moment.

He can’t go back.

Pickles clicks his teeth together before attempting a smile. “There’s always Monday, right?”

“Whatever,” says Magnus, making heads turn at his nonchalant response. Nathan raises brow, and Skwisgaar’s jaw sinks. Pickles stares at him like he’d half-expecting Magnus to break into a speech, a long diatribe about the hours spent making it this far. Instead, the man shrugs, and keeps his attention on the road. “If she’s a registered officiant, that’s all that counts.”

Skwisgaar perks his head towards Magnus. “Ams you nots supposed to be in a hurries?”

Magnus doesn’t regard Skwisgaar’s concern, but turns his attention from the traffic to meet Pickles in the eyes. “Pickles says it can wait until Monday,” he states, voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Otherwise, he has two months to set up a wedding date. I’m sure he understands perfectly what he’s doing.”

Nathan’s eyes narrow at the lack of concern. Through the confusion, Murderface supplies Magnus’ remark with a short, but approving nod. 

Pickles waits until Magnus returns to the road before supplying a quiet “yeah, dood,” and sinks into the syrup stained cushion, letting a week’s worth of strain and anxiety being to chip and crumble off his body. 

In the rearview mirror, Pickles thinks he finds Magnus staring at him, but cannot figure if it’s a look of concern, a glare, or just the reflecting light playing games with him.

* * *

Pickles met Courtney six days into his journey for a purpose after the end of his world. He was fourth months out of being a lead singer, front man to a band that only really made it big in the far east, but still carried that uppity, godforsakin’ sunavabitch attitude that resulted in more fights and bruised lips than autographs to anyone he met that happened to recognize his face. Like every woman he ever found attractive, she regarded his previous success with a roll of the eyes, a haughty smile that informed him he’d have to try harder, toss in a side of feelings and humility if he wanted to get close. Pickles spent several weeks living off her and her posse’s good graces, trading work and what allowance he had for sleeping in a crowded trailer and living off canned goods. Pickles smoked homegrown weed and shared conversation with her regarding the reddening clouds of politics rising in the air, or some variant of religious, psychological and astrological theory. He never gave up more than his once famous persona, but consented to shed a few of those many layers he kept cooped around him, if only to appear more in her favor. It wasn’t enough shed walls to get into her pants, though Pickles tossed that goal aside some time after they crossed Arizona’s border. Though he was sure he was in love with her (and every other woman in that trailer that supplied him a mere ounce of attention), he gave up sleeping with her in favor for more of her tales as a pagan trying to get closer to mother earth, a religious theorist who believed they all served a purpose, and was in search of her own.

“Which is?” he remembered asking her one midnight. They stared through the open screen of a shack they discovered one summer afternoon, watching and listening to the rain collide with the leaking roof all evening, until the storm clouds passed, leaving behind a clear night sky riddled with the colors of the wide, open galaxy.

Smoke poured from her nostrils. “Love, I think. That, or empathy.”

“Empathy?”

Even under the influence, it sounded like basic tarot card mumbo jumbo, but when Pickles laughed at her response, wasn’t met with arguing, tears, or a smack across the face. The woman presented her claim, and faced with the selfish close mindedness of a man, responded to his gesture with a calm smile.

“Emotions. _Real_ human connection,” she clarified before returning to the screen door to admire the moon. “Understanding another person to the highest degree, without words ever being spoken.”

There’s more to the conversation, and while Pickles cannot recount all the details, remembers apologizing to her for laughing, and wondering how long she’d waited to let him know what an asshole he was without ever outright saying so. How on earth he earned her number, a few intimate liaisons and half a dozen postcards is still a mystery, but Pickles thanks god he kept mostly in touch.

It takes a hot minute to remember her number, and three attempts before anyone answers the damn phone. Thank god, Courtney responds to his name with delighted cheer. Pickles listens to her jubilation at the wonderful news, asking about the girl that’s managed to reel and anchor him to reality. He tells her the story and envisions her smile falling to a close. Her side of the line goes quiet as he relays an abbreviated version of his tale, starting with his insurance, stumbling over him putting off a change of residency, and turning to a mere whisper at the fact that he’s technically already married. He doesn’t mention the day’s ventures, but his sinking voice provides enough of a hint for her to come to the right conclusion.

She’ll marry Pickles and Magnus, but it’s going to have to wait. She and some friends are heading to Alafia for a short stint before traveling further north for a music festival. Pickles sinks at the news.

“How quickly do you need it signed?”

Pickles replies with a frank, “I want tah get this done as soon as possible.”

Her hair graces the line with a webbing of static as she nods. “Does your new hubby like camping?” 

Pickles doesn’t bother leaving the couch to ask. “Yeah?”

“Think you two would be open for a campfire wedding?” she asks. “I know it ain’t ideal, but on the bright side, there will be plenty of witnesses in and on good spirits.”

She laughs, but the temptation is real. Pickles could for a weekend of music and booze, breathing in air laced with frenzy, adrenaline and hallucinating fumes. Back in the apartment, Pickles watches steam roll out from underneath the crooked bathroom door. He’s confident Magnus would agree to a few days blasted out of his mind. Call it a wedding a gift. Hell, make a joke and refer to it as their honeymoon.

Pickles licks his lips. He tugs at the cord and, feigning mild interest, asks, “An where exactly would all this be takin’ place, and when?”

She provides the details. Pickles lines the information with his internal calendar. If all goes well, he and Magnus leave the apartment, reach Courtney and her crew by Friday evening, get married Saturday, and from there, spend their Sunday high as shit. As far as plans and arranged marriages go, Pickles can’t ask for anything more. He agrees to the plan, thanks her a million times while writing the address and the directions to the camping ground and natural reserve on an oil-stained receipt.

He drops the good news to Magnus once he steps out of the shower. Giving Magnus hardly any time to process, much less retort, Pickles follows him into the bedroom, informing him that Courtney did _them_ a solid and _booked_ a reservation next weekend, and that the location just so happened to be _near_ a natural reserve. There was also a music festival taking place, and if Magnus was in the mood, the two could remain there a day or two longer and make the most of an awkward situation.

Magnus sorts through a pile of wrinkled, but laundered clothes. He wears the same, flat line of an expression, brows creased inward like every other word Pickles is saying is hitting wrong. It’s only after Pickles mentions the wedding is technically free does it dawn upon him that Magnus has a job, things to worry about, and that Pickles has no idea whether the man enjoys camping.

“I’ll pay for yer first hit,” Pickles promises, figuring he can afford the extra spending if he calls and sets up his insurance, and maybe take an extra shift next week.

Magnus’ towel slips and hangs from his shoulder. His dark, damp waves rise with the evening humidity, adding a level of wild curiosity in the glint now possessing his eyes.

“What kind of music?”

Pickles grins. It’s not a “yes,” but it sure as hell isn’t a refusal either. “Psychedelic rock mainly, but ya got a bit of stoner, classic an’ prahg in the mix.”

Magnus tugs the base of his short beard. “And this is all planned out?”

“Sure is, dood.”

Magnus nods, and after a few additional twists, agrees to the idea with a playful grin. “It’ll be a bitch, but I guess I can ask for Friday off. Maybe Monday. Use my wedding as an excuse.” He snickers, drops his other towel from around his waist, then reaches for a pair of jeans. As Pickles looks away to give the man some privacy, glances at an alarm clock displaying the time.

Sun will be down in less than an hour. 

“You have some real, good friends, Pickles.”

The sentence comes out from nowhere. Unguarded, Pickles turns, finding Magnus at the edge of a bed, buttoning his pants. It’s nothing special, but Pickles can’t tear his eyes away from Magnus. Nothing’s changed about him, but the statement he made resonates, brings attention to something Pickles hadn’t thought about till now. Magnus, his bandmate of several months, the man sitting before him, is his husband now. It’s a title that’s in name only, but it’s a damn big deal. Pickles has never been married before, and although the one he arranged with Magnus is one of convenience, doesn’t change the fact that the two signed a binding contract, and are now on the journey to completing it with a ceremony.

Sure, Nathan helped pay for the license, and both Skwisgaar and Murderface did their part to help, but Magnus was sticking his neck out for Pickles. He _did_ stick his neck out, practically drew a damn bullseye across his chest with the scenes he caused in the courthouse. Magnus drove him to the courthouse in bad traffic, then to the apartment, to a printing kiosk, the DMV, made a return to the courthouse and DMV once more, and then finally drove him back home, and never once asked for gas money. In the span of a day, Magnus proved himself a worthy friend. He grumbled, swore and tossed threats the entire way, raised a damn fit in front of everyone and had security guards shadowing them by the time they left the building, but it got shit done.

It’s only now that Pickles pauses to think that maybe Magnus was just as tired as he was, and likely wanted to get things done in a day to be done with the trouble. Only now does Pickles play through the entire series of events and notice that he thanked just about everyone except Magnus. His partner in crime. His… _husband_.

“Yeah, I do,” he mutters while Magnus puts on a pair of socks. He detects the shift of tone, vocal chords turning soft, and stops what he’s doing to raise an inquisitive brow. Feeling sentimental, Pickles nervously shifts from one foot to the next, thinking of a way to repay him without being too sappy. The memory of him tearing up in the men’s room is still fresh.

“I know it ain’t much, _but_ …” Pickles stows his fingers into his pockets before leaning heavily to the right. “let me buy ya a bottle. For yer troubles. I got enough to fuck ya up, but as far as quality goes…”

An impromptu celebration initiates soon after, with both men stepping out from the bedroom to broadcast the rest of the evening’s festivities. Everyone lights up at the news. Pickles calls for someone to grab drinks with him, another to fetch an affordable meal. Crumpled dollar bills and spare change is tossed on the kitchen counter. Nathan pulls out a five from his wallet, but Pickles stops him from adding anything to the pile. In the scuffle and concord of men sorting through a list of to-does, Magnus announces he’s going to try and steal the cable from the neighbors.

“Whosch car are we takin’?”

“I’m low on gas. You can walk to the liquor store.”

“The Mexicans food will be colds by thens.”

“I taught we were gettin’ Chinese?”

Pickles is the first to crack a cold can and raise it towards the ceiling. In the increasing, chaotic cacophony of cheers, laughter and jokes, Magnus nudges Pickles’ waist with a jab of his finger, and offers him a bottle of Jameson by the neck. Pickles takes a complementary gulp, drowns the rising heat burgeoning across his freckled cheeks and shoulders once Murderface notices and points a finger to tease him. Not yet drunk, Magnus flips Murderface the bird, but the actions only quicken the domino effect. With each gulp, a new joke arises, and Pickles can barely manage a bite of his meal without getting hit by an onslaught of unoriginal, uninspired jests made sloppier from copious amounts of drinking.

“ _Magnus em Pickle, sittinks under a trees_.”

“ _Kay-eye-esch-ee-ee-en-gee_!”

Pickles parts from the foamy top of his can to regard the out-of-tune melody with a drastic roll of his eyes. “Real creative, doods.”

The volume worsens once it's revealed the TV has cable. Styrofoam takeout boxes and plastic bags carrying half consumed 12-packs litter the living room floor as the men take turns passing chow mein and sickly sweet orange chicken, or calling out such-and-such to grab them a specific brand of beer, or for Magnus to change the channel, Murderface to stop hogging the blankets. Any remains of stress part after the third can, and by the fifth, Pickles relishes and partakes in the immature pleasures of his fellow bandmates. _MTV Live_ blasts this weeks’ hottest music video, and Pickles yanks Magnus by the arm, slaps his cheeks a few times before puckering his lips, threatening Magnus with kisses that come near, but never make contact. Each feigned attempt earns the jeers and mockery of some member, and yet, Pickles plays into it, snickering each time Magnus pushes him away, until the flash of a throwaway camera forces both to flee.

“Hey, Pickles. Aren’t you supposed to carry the bride through the door?”

“Yeah, c’mon Magnush. Poshe with Picklesh!”

The world starts to spin after seven cans and three more gulps of Jameson, and when Pickles turns to make sense of what’s on the screen, can only make out the static coursing across his frazzled brain. A perpetual fog claims his senses, and wings sprout from his back. Pickles flies across the apartment, giddy and lacking any care. The remarks and laughter from his friends mean nothing, and Pickles feeds off their smiles, the relief that permeates with every gesture, the celebration that’s less about a marriage, and more the return to normalcy, a return of a Pickles who faced the unknown with a slanted grin and two middle fingers raised high. The world spins faster, revolves around the hidden sun as evening turns into midnight, the witching hour and, finally, early morning.

“Don’t forgets to communiscates your marriages.”

“Sho gay!”

His consciousness barely registers the shadows and shifting lights. Pickles floats on, surrounded by a comforting heat as he glides further into the darkness. The syrupy, alcohol infused slumber beckons him, and when Pickles closes his eyes, endures the impending, whirling slip. His brain’s a feather, but the rest of his body drowns in the imaginative quicksand. Through the ticklish haze, Pickles senses a nearby force, a shake of springs underneath him, and a flicker of light that comes and goes with a fuzzy bounce. Pickles drowns in his beers, vanishes from existences and ceases to be. His wings wither and shrivel, and when Pickles finally comes to, discovers someone’s carried him into his bedroom.

His mind wavers at the crossroads of sleep and suffering. He brings a damp, clammy hand to his forehead. Nausea encompasses him, riddles his mind with the forewarning that he needs to remain on his side, not on his back. After a long day of driving back and forth, it would be a real shame if he ended it all by choking on his vomit. Right as he acknowledges this, someone shoves him on his side. Awake, Pickles grunts, lifts an arm and tries swatting the hand away, only to have his unseen tormenter force him into place before attempting to tuck him on his side.

“Wha-?” Pickles turns, and blankets pull and topple over his lanky shoulder. His aggressor moves along, shoving more blankets underneath Pickles’ form, positioning him closer to the edge of his bed in the off chance he upchucks his feast. The second Pickles registers the lack of threat, lets the rough hands fix him into place. He stares at the shadows lining his room, and the tall fixture contorting above him. When Pickles peers up, he finds a thin shadow looming over him, and two amber eyes glowing in the dark. “Mags?”

The still form above him stares silently, as if caught in some devious act. Pickles drags his hand down his face, a smile extending as he feels the tip of his nose, the heat bursting from each tightened cheek.

“Sorry,” Magnus’ hushed voice finally cuts across the eerie muteness. “Just trying to situate–”

“S’alright.” Pickles shuts his eyes, then returns to his former position. He listens to the movement of the bed as Magnus pulls away. Pickles notes the immediate decrease in temperature, and as Magnus’ blurry form reaches the door, recalls that he never formally thanked Magnus, and that he drank at least a third of the whiskey he promised him. “Hey, Mags?”

He watches the fixture hesitate at the door. “Yes, Pickles?”

“Tanks. Fer everythin’,” Pickles wheezes through a yawn. His vision worsens as he squints, trying to make out the unseen expression directed at him. Magnus’ form remains frozen, eyes two dots that Pickles cannot deduce. A brown and mosaic. A dreary work of art. 

Finally, some movement. “Not a problem, Pickles.”

Despite his stupor, Pickles makes enough sense of the movement taking place before him to see Magnus is about to leave, either to the living room, or to parts unknown. Like clockwork, Magnus will depart, disappear for a few days, and things will ultimately return to normal. Pickles will take his T, and Magnus will remain aloof and difficult to process, analyze and deconstruct without hours spent arguing with oneself over another bottle of something strong and smooth. Everything will go back to the way it was, Pickles thinks, but at this moment in time, felt it suitable to do more for Magnus that buy him a drink, provide a simple “thank you” before sending him on his way. And the bastard tucked him in, too.

Pickles sniff. “Come over here,” he slurs, then wiggles free from his blankets, lifting an arm up and calls Magnus close with a sloppy wave. “Take half the bed. Ya deserve it.”

“What?” The watercolor painting of Magnus steps forward. “Pickles, you’re–”

“Drunk? Yeah, no shit,” Pickles adds, stopping Magnus with a crooked grin. He tears off the covers and kicks the comforter aside, then taps the empty space next to him. “I’m also offerin’ you some prime real estate here. I don’t share my bed with jus’ anyone.” 

He keeps on waving, dragging the murky shadow closer with a suggestive smile, a pout of the bottom lip when Magnus shakes his head and tries fixing Pickles back into place. With a sudden grab, Pickles yanks Magnus into the sheets, stutters out the order for the man to remove his shoes and that stupid denim jacket of his, and though it puts him and Magnus at risk, turns around and grabs ahold of Magnus, presenting himself the bigger, mightier spoon. 

The awkwardness lasts a good minute, with Magnus constantly trying to find that perfect position, all while trapped under Pickles’ greedy hold. Though thin, the man proves himself to be a decent heater. Pickles embraces the warmth, rubs his scruffy face against Magnus’ back, soft curls that tickle his nose and rigid formation of a pronounced spine. Were it not for the ribs, tough skin that reeked of spice, and Magnus’s voice telling him to stop playing footsies with him, Pickles would’ve swore he was hugging a girl. Shit, one more can, and he’d probably mistake the poor guy was a one-time fling! Pickles snorts into a thick nest of dark brown curls, then muses on eventually teaching Magnus how to share a bed with another person (poor bastard).

The struggle fades, and the mattress stops its hectic groaning. Magnus mutters something under his breath. Pickles can’t make it out, but hopes to god it’s not another gay joke.

“Promise I won’t barf on ya,” Pickles says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Magnus doesn’t reply, just brings both shoulders up, and for a while, Pickles wonders if he was better off letting the guy sleep on their shitty, collapsed couch. But a minute passes, and Magnus sighs through his nose. His shoulder sinks, and his outline becomes less distinct in the darkness.

“Pickles?”

The voice is whisper, a distant phantom of a sound in the stillness of the night.

Pickles replies with airy yawn. “Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Pickles has never heard Magnus sounding so sincere, and over a bed. Of all things.

He chuckles into Magnus curls. “No problem, dood. S’what friend er’ fer.”


End file.
